Long Live The King
by Dragons-Be-Here
Summary: The King is dead. His uncle is dead.


Written for the kink meme prompt:

I would really like to read a very short fic on Fili's thoughts and feelings when he gets up in front of a crowd to sit on the throne for the first time.

Full prompt here: . ?thread=18329886#t18329886

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The King is dead.

His uncle is dead.

His uncle is dead and there is a crown on his head. It feels heavier than any armour he has worn, and more soaked in blood than his swords. There are a thousand eyes watching him, and it feels like they have found him unworthy.

All but one pair.

Kili stand's at the side of the throne, looking fierce and every inch the Dwarfish prince. His hair and beard are braided, his clothes are impeccably put together, and he bears the mark of the Heir of Durin. He will wear that mark until Fili dies or has a son, and it is strange because that is _Fili's_ mark; the one he has worn since he was but a babe in his mother's arms.

The King is dead.

His uncle is dead.

He has not mourned him, and each step he takes feel like a thousand. He keeps his eyes on Kili, because his brother is the only thing that makes sense in this changed world. His brother has always made sense, even when he hasn't, because Kili is his brother and always by his side and he is _Kili_. There is grief in his brother's eyes and he wants to wash it away, wants to see his brother smile because Kili's smile was the best thing in the world, better than all the gold in Erebor. He would die for that smile (_but he won't because if he did than that smile would never appear again_) but he knows now is not the time. He will grieve with Kili later, locked up in his quarters away from the world and the crown on his head.

The King is dead.

His uncle is dead.

Five more feet and he is rising up the steps to the throne, and he does not look above it because the Arkenstone shines brightly, but not as brightly as his brother. He keeps his eyes on Kili until he stands before the throne (_his throne, his uncle's throne_) with his back to the crowd. He knows he needs to turn, needs to face the dwarrows of Erebor (_his people, now_) but he finds himself frozen in place, eyes locked with his brother and _he cannot move._ This is his uncle's throne, his uncle's people and Fili feels like a child playing dress up, like he will be scolded and sent to his room by his mother.

He is not ready for this.

The King is dead.

His uncle is dead.

"Fee, if you do not turn around right now I will dye your beard while you sleep."

He turns.

It is automatic, because it is a threat Kili has given before and he made the mistake of not heeding it once and awoke with his beard a garish shade of blue. He turns, and looks out over the dwarrows below. (_His people, his uncle's people and he is not ready_.) He has been trained for this day since he was a small child, his uncle's voice rising and falling as he instructed his nephew on what it meant to be a king. He has been taught, he has been shown what it is to be a king. Yet in this moment, he is not ready.

The King is dead.

His uncle is dead.

"Sit down." These words, like the ones before are whispered from the corner of his brother's mouth, and that his baby brother is doing a better job right now makes him both proud and annoyed. Kili has lost just as much as he but he is not the one with a crown on his head and the weight of a mountain on his back. It is fleeting however, and he once again follows his brother's instructions and sits. He taught Kili to walk and talk and fight, has fought trolls and orcs and _dragons_ for his brother, yet in this moment he is a child and his brother is protecting him.

The throne feels too big.

Kili steps forward, drawing his sword (_ceremonial, covered in precious gems and glittering with gold and never touched by blood_) and pointing it out over the crowd. It was fairly quiet as he ascended to the throne, but with this movement even the quiet whispers are silenced. His brother (_This is your baby brother, Kili, and it's your job to always look after him. Teach him, guide him, protect him, always make him smile. This is your brother, and he will always be yours._) spins the sword in his hands until it points down, then he drives it into the floor. The mithril blade slices through the stone like butter, cutting a thin hole into it to join the others like it (_his uncle, his grandfather, his line all the way back to the first king._)

"Long live the king!"

The words are taken up by the crowd, fists in the air as it becomes a chant. (_long live the king, long live the king, long live the king._)

The King is dead.

His uncle is dead.

He is the King Under the Mountain.


End file.
